“Bloody hell,” he said.
She had shocked him as much as his rude language shocked her. In a way, though, she was pleased. Pleased that he did not knowsomething. A wave of satisfaction followed by a twinge of guilt passed through her. Dabbing her mouth with her napkin and placing it back on her lap. The next course arrived, forestalling any discussion at that moment.
Several choices of pies—beef, fowl, chicken and fish—along with three different casseroles and sauces to complement each dish were offered for their selection. If the soup was an indication of the rest of the meal, Clare knew she needed to be prudent in what she requested. She studied each one but before she could speak, Sir Iain did.
“Please give the lady some of each,” he said. The waiters jumped to do as he’d said quickly. “You will regret it later if you do not have a taste of each,” he said, his voice low and smooth like melting treacle. From the shiver that passed through her, she knew he could tempt angels to sin with that voice. And most likely had.
They ate in a comfortable silence and he was right—each of the dishes was delicious. When the waiters returned to remove the dishes and plates, she realized something. A small detail but interesting.
“You do not speak French.” She did not say it as an accusation, rather an observation.
Sir Iain nodded. “I do not.” He held up his glass and the observant waiter brought the decanter to him within moments.
“And they know it?”
Just as she uttered the words, she realized the truth of the situation. Glancing around the stylish dining room of the new and very large and expensive hotel at the foot of Princes Street, she smiled and shook her head.
“You own the hotel. They know your preferences because they work for you.”
“Aye.” He raised his glass to her. “Very observant, Lady Clare.”
“How was that kept out of the reports—” The words slipped out. The reports of his companies, wealth and positions on various boards and investments had been extensive. There had been no mention of this being his property.
“Amazing what money can do,” he said. He winked at her and she laughed.
“But why keep it secret?”
He did not answer her immediately. Instead, he sipped the brandy and stared into its depths as though the answer lay there. When his gaze over the edge of the crystal glass met hers, it glimmered with the lights reflected off the amber liquid. Now it was her turn to worry if she’d asked an impolite question.
“I do apologize, Sir Iain,” she said.
“Iain.” He placed the brandy down. “I wish you would call me Iain.”
“’Tis not polite to discuss financial matters at dinner.” She wished she could flout the rules as easily as he thought she did. But if she had any chance of regaining her place in her family, she must adhere to the greater expectations of class and society. “Sir Iain.”
“So, we will set up a meeting that does not involve a meal and I can explain the reason,” he said. It sounded reasonable until he smiled at her and tempted her to break a few rules. “Or we can discuss whatever the bloody hell we wish to here and now?” He stared at her, daring her to do that. And she wanted to, damn her! At her delay, he shrugged. “Very well, my lady. We shall adhere to all the polite rules.”
Disappointment filled his deep voice and something made her want to not only break some of the rules but to sin, and sin wickedly, with him. A small indiscretion could not matter in this game of theirs if it built some measure of trust between them, could it?
“Iain,” she said. His blue eyes flashed as she spoke his name. “I am curious about your ownership of the hotel. And, I find myself abominably curious about how you managed to reach the position you have without at least a minimum knowledge of French. Will you tell me?”
Had she truly just asked those questions and used his given name? The dining room and all its fixtures, furniture and people seemed to fade around them as something shifted between them. Aye, she had done that and, in doing so, she had crossed a line she feared could never be undone.
The waiters’ approach and voices at that very moment broke whatever moment was happening as they carried trays of food to the table. Once the silent moment was broken, reality intruded and Clare watched and waited as the servers quickly replaced the used plates and cutlery with new or additional silverware and plates. Their efficiency was second to none, not unlike any noble household in which she’d eaten dinner. They were attentive, careful, precise and skilled as they presented the joints of beef and lamb, roasted quail and even a fish dish she did not recognize.
As before, the head waiter named each dish before slicing and serving it to her. This time, with the food so identifiable, except for the fish, Iain waved them off. Once everything was arranged to their satisfaction, she and Iain were alone, Clare spoke the words in French and then repeated them in English. His gaze sharpened and he seemed unmoving and not breathing as she pronounced the words in that language that twisted her tongue and resembled soft puffs of air as she said them. She nearly made up words to keep his intense gaze and attention on her. Finally, she shrugged.
“No French?” she asked.
“Only the bad words.” He was tempting her on purpose. He wanted her to ask the obvious, but she’d overstepped too much this evening.
“Somehow, I am not surprised.”
The temptation to ask him nearly overwhelmed her, so she tilted her head down and cut up the lovely slices of roasted beef on her plate.
“I am the majority owner of the hotel,” he said without any other indication he would explain. “There is a small group of investors who I represent—and with whom I invest as well—who own it.”
“Is this one of the profit-making ventures you offer to advantageous people to encourage them to invest with you?”
